What Horrors Pride Has Wrought
by Mlle. Wilhemina Wonka
Summary: Doc witnesses Marty's accident and wonders if he should intercede.  Set during Doc's time travels in the first movie, rated for brief, mild language.


He really did not want to be here at all. He had told himself, in no uncertain terms, that under no circumstances would he permit himself to visit this moment in time. And yet, a morbid, horrifying, _purely scientific_ curiosity had drawn him here, if only to watch quietly from a hidden corner.

He peered over the wall and saw Marty pull up to the corner. The youth wore a white button-down shirt and Jennifer was seated at his right hand. Marty said something to her, and she laughed. Doc could not explain why he was drawn to this moment, but a sense of foreboding prickled across the back of his mind.

He heard the other truck's aggravatingly loud rock music long before he saw the truck, and a knot of apprehension tied itself in his stomach. He didn't hear the words that passed between Marty and the truckful of teenagers, but with a sickening shock he realized why this moment was so significant.

"Damn your pride, Marty!" he hissed to empty air, mere seconds before he heard the engines revving. He thought he heard, over the lustful howling of the teenagers in the red truck, Jennifer's pleading cries, trying to talk sense into Marty.

Doc knew, long before the light turned green, that Jennifer's efforts were in vain. He didn't need knowledge of the future to know that once baited by a wound to his pride, Marty would never back down, never let go.

Doc closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the warm granite he hid behind.

Tires squealed, the teenagers howled.

Doc's shoulders hunched, and involuntarily, irrationally, he began to pray.

A car horn shrieked. Doc felt the thud before he heard it.

The teenagers' wheels squealed harder against the pavement as they fled the accident they caused.

"Oh God, Marty! MARTY!"

_Damn your pride, Marty._

Despite his prior knowledge that his friend would live through this—though with much worse than wounded pride—Doc could not trust himself to look. He knew himself far too well, knew that he could not trust himself not to interfere.

He longed to run out there, to be by Marty's side and help him in any way he could, but he could no sooner do that than run back to the DeLorean and turn back time to prevent the accident altogether.

He forced himself to turn away. _Destiny, _he chanted to himself to force his feet to move. Des-ti-ny, des-ti-ny.

He wondered what, _precisely_, had drawn him to this moment. Had he seen something, heard something, that would suggest this particular date and time?

His pace increased. DES-ti-NY. DES-ti-NY.

Then what was it? Some innate sense, the bond of pretend father to hapless son? Impossible! Utter nonsense! Impossible still!

He broke his triplet stride and ran, ran from the accident, from the sirens, from the young man he loved like the son he never had. The future depended in some way upon this occurring! He could not, under any circumstances, interfere!

But he knew with sickening certainty that his mere presence here could be far more disruptive than being by Marty's side right now. His mind automatically catalogued every horrifying possibility. Never mind the precautions he took; he could have inadvertently, unknowingly, set into motion a chain of events that could turn the accident from life-altering to life-_ending!_ Could he bear the sight of one so dear lying in the road in a puddle of blood?

He sprinted all the faster, fists and teeth clenched, hair flying and tears streaming as he distanced himself from his friend. On he went until he ran out of air, strength, and pavement, and collapsed in an exhausted heap in the hardpacked earth beyond the very edge of the housing project. Every atom and fiber of his being screamed for him to go back, _go back!_

"DAMN YOUR PRIDE!" he cried to the empty air. Utterly exhausted and unable to help, he sat in the dirt and wept for his friend.

Several hours passed, and the doctor saw not a soul. Shakily he pulled himself to his feet and walked slowly away from the construction, to think logically—scientifically—about how best to proceed. His heart ached, but he ignored it.


End file.
